


The Dropping of Pretenses and Panties

by korlaena



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, F/F, Fem!Drarry, Genderbending, HP: EWE, Joggers, Running, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 03:12:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13309227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korlaena/pseuds/korlaena
Summary: Every day since Draco moved into Harry’s complex three months ago, Harry has had to watch her go for a morning run in joggers. Who actually goes jogging in joggers? They’re a quasi-athletic fashion choice, not proper sportswear. It’s ridiculous. It’s driving Harry crazy.





	The Dropping of Pretenses and Panties

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the mods for taking the time to organize this fest! I've been wanting to write some fem!Drarry for a while and this gave me the perfect excuse.

Harry lights the tip of her fag, takes a shallow drag just to get the cherry burning, and leans forward against the railing of the balcony. The cold metal bites into her bare forearms and causes a small shiver to run down her spine. Steam rises from the mug of Nescafé sat next to her on the railing, and Harry picks it up and takes a sip, reveling in the much-needed shot of caffeine. 

It’s about half six on a Saturday, and Harry is awake and standing out in the chill of the early September morning because she is going crazy. No, not going. Harry has already gone crazy. She knows it. She’s accepted it. 

The first hints of pale, purple light before dawn stretch up from the edge of the dark sky, diffused against the blanket of clouds, and the air is thick and sticky with a rise in humidity. It will rain soon, and, though she knows it’s too early, Harry’s eyes sweep over the edge of the park across the way, looking for a familiar figure. All is still and quiet apart from the occasional early bird driving down the street to work. 

Harry looks at the fag between her fingers and then takes a short drag just to keep it lit, inhaling the sweet yet acrid smoke and rolling the taste around her tongue. She’s been trying to quit for nearly a year, ever since she quit the ex she’d picked up the habit from. 

Although, maybe ‘trying’ isn’t the right word. Harry had quit. She’d quit smoking completely, had even tapered off the nicotine gum, but then a few months back Draco had moved into her flat complex and Harry had found a reason to start again.

A small splash of water on Harry’s arm draws her attention to it and then up to the sky, watching the start of a slow drizzle. Harry flicks the built up ash from the end of her cigarette and pulls back from the railing. 

She rubs some warmth into her forearms and steps back under the shelter of the balcony above hers, watching the light shower build into a heavier downpour. She settles in to wait, as she has done every morning since the first time she discovered Draco going for an early morning run in the park.

It’s stupid. She feels stupid for doing it, but Harry can’t stop herself. Even though she’s not a morning person and has never liked waking up this early. Even though she’d quit smoking five months back and hadn’t wanted to start again. Even though there should be no rational reason for Harry to want to watch Draco doing something as simple and human as going for a morning jog. And yet.

It’s almost twenty minutes and two cigarettes later when Harry finally spots her, just as the sun is breaking over the horizon. Harry leans back out against the railing, heedless of the rain spraying across her front, and takes a chuff from her fag to get the cherry burning, hoping to look natural—as if this was unplanned.

Harry watches Draco through the haze of the rainstorm as she steadily moves closer, running along the park’s outer path, the pale hair of her ponytail swishing rhythmically behind her. She in the grey joggers today. 

Joggers, again. Every damn time.

Every day since Draco moved into Harry’s complex three months ago, Harry has had to watch her go for a morning run in joggers. Who actually goes jogging in joggers? They’re a quasi-athletic fashion choice, not proper sportswear. It’s ridiculous. It’s driving Harry crazy. 

Harry supposes that it is autumn and rather nippy out, so maybe Draco wears them to keep warm on her runs. But still. They look to be cotton, which is just impractical. If it rains they’ll keep her wet and cold her entire run—or rather _when_ it rains. They’re in London, for Merlin’s sake, there’s always a 50/50 chance of rain. 

Despite the fact that her coffee went cold long ago, Harry picks up her mug and drains the last of it. It’ll make her look more casual, less staged. Harry isn’t out here to watch Draco jogging in a sweaty vest top and those damned joggers. No, Harry is just out for her morning fag. Nothing unusual about that. 

Draco looks soaked to the bone, and she must be freezing in the chill morning air with a sharp breeze that won’t quit. Harry bites her lip as she watches Draco’s long, lithe form moving fluidly down the path, equal parts appreciative of the act and concerned for Draco’s health. She’ll catch her death if she keeps running in that outfit, especially as they approach winter. 

As Draco gets closer to their complex, she looks up, spots Harry, and lifts a hand in greeting. Harry raises her mug at Draco in return and watches as Draco glances down both directions of the street, then trots across it to the front of their building and out of Harry’s line of sight. 

Harry sighs, then leans down and puts the fag out in the ashtray she keeps out on the balcony. She moves back into the warmth of her flat, takes the mug to the kitchen sink, and grabs a hand towel to dry the rain droplets off her arms and face.

Just as Harry is contemplating either making breakfast or going back to bed, her intercom buzzes. 

Harry’s stomach does this odd drop and then swoop thing, because she knows it’s Draco. It has to be. Who else would it be at this ungodly hour? 

Harry moves to the intercom, hesitating briefly before pressing the button to speak. “Hello?”

“Potter!” Draco’s voice cuts through the other end impatiently. “I’ve forgotten my bloody key, let me in!”

Harry blinks, then presses the button to buzz Draco into the building. 

Should Harry do something else? Will Draco be able to get into her flat? Does she leave it unlocked for her runs, or does she lock it behind her? Shite, is she going to come to Harry’s flat? Surely the building manager would have a spare key, but would he be awake yet?

Harry stops and looks down at herself. She’s still in her lazy morning look—ripped jeans, a loose t-shirt under a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows, and she hasn’t any makeup on. 

For a brief, frenzied moment Harry tries to calculate exactly how much time she has to clean herself up until Draco potentially makes it to her door before rational thought returns. 

It’s Saturday. Harry doesn’t have work, and it’s barely sunrise. There’s no reason for her to be dressed up or wearing makeup. She looks casual, as she should. She’s fine.

Harry runs a hand through her wet, wavy hair and paces her living room while she waits, thinking about Draco. 

In the three months since Draco moved in to the same building, Draco had never been in Harry’s flat, or even buzzed her before. This is a first, and Harry’s not sure how to act. She’s not even sure if Draco is going to come to her flat, but it’s possible, and Harry… Harry thinks she might like that. 

Harry has actually been hoping to find some excuse to spend some real time with Draco. Since becoming neighbours, they’d not gone beyond small talk at the mailboxes.

Before moving in, Harry would see Draco around the Ministry and various functions regularly. Draco had spent several years away from London’s wizarding world before coming back and being hired into the DMLE in an advisory capacity focusing on the Dark Arts and potions. 

It’s more of a contract than a permanent position, but she’s been doing it for the past two years, which was enough to put them back in each other’s orbit, enough for them to fight through their history, and enough for Harry to develop something of a crush.

Spend enough time around the git and no one would be able to help but notice how beautiful Draco is. And smart. And driven. And creative.

It wasn’t a problem. It had been manageable. Lots of people are attractive, it didn’t mean anything that Harry had slowly started noticing Draco’s nicer qualities, that once she noticed them she couldn’t stop herself from seeing them, or that she in turn found them wildly attractive. 

It had been fine, until it wasn’t. Until Draco had unknowingly moved into the same building and, on one otherwise perfectly normal evening, Harry had gone out only to stumble upon Draco taking her rubbish out to the wheelie bin. 

Something in Harry had cracked at that moment. Just as the facade of detached, unflappable professionalism Draco carried like a shield around the Ministry in four inch heels and exquisitely embroidered robes cracked. 

That untouchable, idealised form of Draco that Harry had had to contend with these last couple years was wrenched out into the stark, fluorescent lights of a dingy London street, and in those lights Harry felt like she could finally see her clearly, looking down-to-Earth and vulnerable in the unfiltered realness of baggy joggers and a stained hoodie.

Seeing Draco like that had made the small flame Harry had been carrying for her blaze into a raging inferno. She quickly became addicted to seeing this other side of Draco, the side where she lets her hair down and trudges through the drab aspects of everyday life that everyone else has to trudge through.

After that incident Harry soon found herself bumping into Draco everywhere—at the kebab joint down the street at one in the morning, at Harry’s favourite coffee shop, and even on the Tube. Harry quickly learned that Draco likes to wear oversized Muggle clothes while she does chores, that she goes running every morning in joggers, and that she has an iPod full of Rihanna. 

Harry much prefers these glimpses of Draco’s life to their dry meetings at the Ministry. It makes Draco feel more like a regular person that Harry could talk and relate to—someone that she could maybe even ask out.

There’s a rapid, impatient knock at Harry’s door then that makes her stop her pacing mid-stride. Harry swallows, runs a hand through her hair in a fruitless bid at getting it to sit flatter on her head, then opens the door.

“Can’t believe I forgot my damn key,” Draco fumes, throwing up her hands irritably and stepping past Harry into the flat without waiting for an invitation.

“Come right on in then, Malfoy,” Harry says dryly and shuts the door behind her.

“And Carl won’t be awake for at _least_ another hour, the lazy bastard,” Draco continues ranting as if Harry hadn’t said anything, then she stops in the middle of the living room and glances around the space curiously.

“No wand then either, I take it?” 

Draco’s gaze snaps back to Harry. “Of course not. Where could I put it where it wouldn’t be at risk of falling out?” Draco gestures widely at her person. “Could I bother you for a towel?”

“Er, right. Of course.” Draco had barrelled into Harry’s stale Saturday morning, breaking apart the regular routine and setting Harry off-kilter, so much so that she hadn’t registered until now how Draco is shivering and dripping all over the floor.

Harry goes down the hall to her linens closet, gets the biggest, fluffiest towel she has, and brings it back to Draco. 

“Here, come on.” Harry guides Draco next to the fireplace and takes her wand out, swishing it to start up a warm blaze.

“Thanks,” Draco says and flashes Harry a small smile before she pulls the hair band out from her ponytail and rubs the towel over her head.

“Do you want tea?” Harry asks over her shoulder as she heads to the kitchen. “Or coffee? I think I’ve got orange juice.”

“Tea sounds lovely.”

Harry fills the kettle and sets it to start boiling. She pulls down two mugs from the cupboard and puts a tea bag in each.

When she turns back around, she finds Draco shirtless, laying her vest top out in front of the fireplace, and she freezes. Harry watches the muscles and bones in Draco’s back and shoulders ripple as she straightens and then starts to towel off her chest. 

Harry swallows hard and forces her feet to move forward, telling herself to stop being a tit. She sees plenty of girls in their underwear in the locker room all the time and this should be no different. 

Draco spares her a glance as Harry perches on the arm of the settee, then runs the towel down each of her arms slowly. She seems completely unashamed of her state of undress in front of Harry, and uses the towel to wipe slowly over each body part in turn, rather than cover herself with it.

Harry tries to keep her gaze cursory as it sweeps across the line of Draco’s shoulders, over the black sports bra flattening her chest, down the sides of her ribcage tapering to a slim waist and the small, oval divot of her bellybutton. 

Harry’s eyes snap up to find Draco watching her, one corner of her mouth ticked up in a smirk. Darting her gaze away, Harry can feel her cheeks burning and makes to fill the silence with empty words. 

“Kettle’s on. Tea won’t be but a minute.”

“Like what you see, Potter?” Draco asks, paying no mind to Harry’s small talk. She pops the name ‘Potter’ like they’re still in Hogwarts.

Harry meets Draco’s challenging stare and neatly sidesteps the question with one of her own. “Don’t you think we’re past calling each other by our last names?”

Draco looks a little surprised at first, then lifts one bare shoulder in a careless shrug. “Never had cause not to.”

Harry hears the click of the kettle shutting off in the background, but ignores it in lieu of prolonging their banter.

She raises an eyebrow at Draco. “Standing in my living room half-naked isn’t cause enough for you?”

Draco smirks, shifts her weight to push one hip out and puts a hand on it. “Alright then. What should I call you instead? Scarhead? Potty? Four-eyes?”

Harry huffs and rolls her eyes. “Oh I dunno, how about something crazy, like my name?”

“Okay,” Draco says, a catlike grin spreading across her features, and practically purrs out the name, “ _Harriet_.”

At the sound of her full first name, Harry makes a sour face. The only reason anyone ever calls her Harriet is because she’s in trouble, or because the person doesn’t know her well enough—neither of which apply here.

“God, not that,” Harry grouses. “I feel as if I’m being called to McGonagall's office to receive a stern talking to.”

Draco laughs. “It is your name, is it not?”

“You’re right, you got me, _Dracaina_. It is my name,” Harry says, feeling smug when Draco’s immediate response is to wince and then tut at the sound of her own first name. 

“Alright,” Draco finally concedes with a roll of her eyes, but when her gaze meets Harry’s again it seems soft and hesitantly pleased as she tests out the name, “Harry.”

Hearing her own name roll off Draco’s tongue, in her sweet voice and the slight lilt of that posh accent that has driven her mad for ages, fills Harry’s chest with a sense of warmth and contentment. 

“Draco,” Harry tests her name out in response and enjoys the way Draco’s eyes brighten at the sound of it. 

It seems such a silly thing to make a fuss over, but they’d spent so many years throwing ‘Malfoy’ and ‘Potter’ back and forth at each other with as much contempt as one can fit into a single word, that it feels like a balm across the scars of their history to drop the last names and start fresh with the intimacy and familiarity of a nickname.

For a moment all they do is stare at each other in silence, both smiling shyly and processing this new development in their own ways. The tea is long forgotten.

Draco is the first to drop her gaze, looking down at her joggers and then dabbing at the wet fabric with her towel.

Harry’s eyes follow the movement down, admiring the joggers on Draco, the way they’re loose at the top and accentuate the length of her legs as they taper down to her delicate ankles, ending just above her trainers. 

As much as it drives her crazy, Harry loves seeing Draco wearing the latest Muggle athleisure. She loves the casual look of it, of the way it contrasts how rigidly professional she always presents herself at the Ministry, and of the fact that it’s Muggle fashion. 

Harry wants to ask her about her time after the war. She knows the short of it, that during her probation Draco had had to live as a Muggle, but Harry wants to know the details. She wants to know the process of how Draco grew into the woman she is today, of how it felt to be confronted with the erroneousness of every ugly, bigoted belief she’d been spoon-fed as a child, of how long it took to learn better.

And yet, with all these important questions swirling around Harry’s head, what comes out of her mouth is, “Why do you wear those?”

Draco stops and blinks, looking up at Harry as if that’s the last thing she expected her to say, which isn’t surprising, seeing as it’s the last thing Harry intended to say. She tilts her head in question and Harry gestures at the joggers to clarify. 

Draco looks down at the article of clothing, then back up to Harry and shrugs carelessly. “They’re comfortable.”

“They don’t look comfortable,” Harry comments. The fabric of the joggers is laden with water, sagging from it, and barely clingy to her hips. The fabric sticks to her legs in places, looking nothing but heavy and chill. “They’re cotton, they’ll soak up all that rain and sap your warmth.”

“You’re one to talk,” Draco says, eyebrow raising as she looks pointedly from Harry’s flannel to her jeans.

“I’m not the one running outside while it’s pissing rain,” Harry counters.

“No, just hanging out in it for a ciggy,” Draco says, and she has this knowing smirk on her face that makes Harry nervous.

“A few minutes in the rain isn’t the same as spending an hour out there exercising in the wrong sort of gear,” Harry says. “Better to strip than wear cotton.” Harry tacks on the last line automatically, a phrase that had been drilled into her countless times during the fieldwork portion of Auror training. 

Draco’s eyes widen briefly, and Harry realises then, after the words are already out and it’s too late to take them back, how exactly that sounds. 

“I—in a storm, I mean, because of the—the loss of heat, and cotton doesn’t—it doesn’t…” Harry’s stuttered attempt to backtrack dies out as Draco kicks off her trainers, then hooks her thumbs in the band of her joggers and pushes them down. She leans over, long, wet tresses falling over her shoulders as she peels the piece of clothing down off her legs and steps out of it. 

Draco straightens, locking eyes with Harry as she tosses the joggers aside. They land on the tile next to the fireplace with a wet slap.

The only sound Harry can hear after that is the blood rushing in her ears and her throat trying to swallow. She can’t stop her eyes dropping to the matching set of black panties Draco is wearing, stark against her pale tone. Harry starts to feel too hot in her own skin. 

Harry’s eyes slide farther down, drawn to her thick, strong thighs. They’re bigger than Harry expected, muscled and toned. Runner’s thighs. Harry’s immediate thought is that she wants to go down on Draco and feel the strength of them under her hands as she pushes Draco’s legs open, wants to feel them flexing and clenching as she makes Draco come around her tongue.

Harry feels frozen, like a deer in the headlights, suddenly nervous. What is it about Draco that can always throw Harry off so? That leaves her feeling just like she’s her fourteen year-old self again, awkward and knobbly, hands shaking as she nervously asks Cho Chang to the Yule Ball, rather than the confident, twenty-eight year-old Auror who unflinchingly faces down Unforgivable Curses on a regular basis. 

“Happy now, Potter?” Draco drawls, going for cool indifference, but a flicker of uncertainty flashes across her face, cracking the smug smirk that had graced it moments earlier. 

That is what finally gets Harry to push past her nerves and move—knowing that Draco is probably just as scared as she is, but is putting herself out there nonetheless. Harry isn’t going to leave her hanging. 

“Harry,” she corrects her gently, standing and taking a step towards Draco.

Draco watches her move forward and nods. “Harry.”

Harry clears the space between them easily, bringing them close enough to touch. She extends her hand slowly, giving Draco a chance to stop her or back away, before tracing her fingers lightly against Draco’s ribs. 

A small shiver runs down Draco’s spine, and Harry looks up into her grey eyes, silently asking if this is okay. Draco bites her bottom lip and nods. 

As Harry glides her fingers down the cold skin, she can feel Draco getting goosebumps. She leaves her hand resting on Draco’s hip and reaches with the other to hold Draco’s jaw as Harry leans up to kiss her. 

Draco drops the towel and pushes forward, meeting Harry in the kiss and sliding her arms around her, gripping at the fabric of Harry’s flannel. Everything about it feels right—the press of Draco’s body against hers, the warmth of her mouth contrasted by the chill of her hands, the sticky texture of her lip gloss. 

The initial kiss is slow, but it quickly becomes heated. Harry tilts her head to get a better angle and their mouths open against each other, tongues sliding together wetly. Harry bites at Draco’s lip, and Draco moans into the kiss. 

They part briefly to suck in quick gulps of air before diving back in, pulling and pushing and colliding together. Harry’s glasses get knocked askew and the nose pads push into her skin almost painfully, but Harry couldn’t care less, because after a year of pining she finally has Draco in her arms, and it’s even better than she imagined. 

Draco pushes a hand up under Harry’s shirt, spreading her cold fingers over Harry’s stomach and making her shiver.

“You’re freezing,” Harry murmurs between the kisses she’s pressing down the column of Draco’s throat.

“Mm,” Draco tones in agreement, pulling back from Harry to flash her a smile. “Are you going to warm me up?”

“Yes,” Harry agrees readily. She slowly runs a hand down Draco’s side and hooks a thumb in her panties. 

Draco watches Harry avidly, biting her bottom lip and nodding eagerly when Harry pauses to check in with her. Harry pushes the garment down Draco’s thighs, lets them drop to the floor and puts a hand on Draco’s hip to steady her as she steps out of them.

Harry barely gets a chance to admire her, the V of her pelvis, the light blond hair curling down her Venus mound, before Draco pulls Harry into a passionate kiss. It’s heady and sensual, and it makes Harry’s toes curl with desire. 

Draco ends the kiss as abruptly as she started it, then jumps on Harry, wrapping her arms around her neck and legs around her waist. Harry grabs onto her frantically and stumbles a step before she catches her balance.

“Draco—”

“Take me to bed, Harry,” Draco pleads, so Harry does. 

They spend the next several hours in a haze of sex, talking, sex, snacks, more talking, and more sex.

After dragging themselves out of Harry’s bed, they return to the living room where Harry watches Draco get dressed. Her clothes are still mostly wet, and Harry’s certain she won’t have the most comfortable trip to get back into her flat. Harry offers to lend her clothes in the meantime, but Draco declines.

She notes with some satisfaction that Draco has foregone putting her bra and panties back on. Harry will have to find them for her later.

When Draco is dressed, Harry walks her to the door and steals another kiss. Her fingers linger on the back of Draco’s neck as she asks, “You sure you can’t stay?”

Draco smiles ruefully. “Yes, unfortunately. I’ve plans I can’t get out of. I’ll come by tomorrow after my run?” 

Her tone goes up at the end, making it sound more like a question than a statement, so Harry nods her agreement.

“Are you going to stop pretending to smoke so you can gawk at me in the mornings?” Draco asks, a sly, knowing smile slipping onto her face.

“Er.” Harry blushes, then chuckles sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. “I suppose so.” 

“Good,” Draco says, idly running a hand down Harry’s side. “After all, you shouldn’t need an excuse to admire this.” She gestures down the length of her body.

Harry snorts out a laugh. “No, apparently not.”

Draco smirks and steps out into the hallway, then glances back at Harry. “Going to watch my walk of shame too?”

“As if I’d ever miss that.” Harry grins and leans against the door frame, folding her arms over her chest and watching Draco make her way down the hall to the lift with her clothes wet and wrinkled and her hair tied up in a messy bun. 

She puts on a show for Harry, swaying her hips much more than is necessary and when she stops at the doors to the lift she throws a saucy look back at Harry and winks playfully. 

Harry laughs and Draco grins, then pushes the up button to call the lift.

Harry’s brow furrows. “Draco? Don’t you need to go down? To get your spare from Carl?”

“No need,” Draco says blithely, brandishing a key from her pocket and smirking devilishly.

Just then the lift doors open with a cheery chime and Draco steps in, not giving Harry a chance to respond, though Harry’s sure her swearing follows Draco into the lift before it shuts and whisks her away.

Harry can’t find it in her to be too mad about it, because it led to some of the best sex of her life and the promise of more tomorrow.


End file.
